


all i wanna do is to fall in deep

by quick_ly



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 19:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quick_ly/pseuds/quick_ly
Summary: It’s not that Favreau isn’t nice and charming and, scientifically speaking, incredibly handsome. Or that he isn’t smart and interesting and probably, Ronan assumes, even better once you get to know him. But his soulmate? Really?





	all i wanna do is to fall in deep

**Author's Note:**

> This has been bubbling around in my head for a few months, ever since someone made an anonymous comment about it somewhere on tumblr. I haven't written fic in several years and am more than a little rusty, but this was something to do this weekend in between canvassing! Title taken from "Into You" by Ariana Grande, because I've been listening to "thank u, next" all day but naming a romantic story after a break-up song seemed not appropriate.
> 
> Anyways, as everyone says, keep it secret, keep it safe. Respect the fourth wall please and do not let anyone mentioned in this story ever see it ever!
> 
> Go vote!

Ronan wakes up to the sound of his alarm and a feeling in the pit of his gut telling him that he’s made a huge fucking mistake.

 _Shit_. Last night.

Everything after 9pm is mostly a blur of pop songs and fruity drinks, with a very hot guy thrown in there. Fuck, Ronan definitely made out with someone last night. He put on a very tight (possibly see-through?) shirt and dragged himself to Town for, “one drink, seriously, I have to be up in the morning,” only to abandon his friends like twenty minutes in to hump some super-hot dude he had never met before in a bathroom stall. Which, you know, maybe wouldn’t have been that stupid of a mistake if he hadn’t done it on a goddamn Thursday, the night before he was due to show up at the White House to meet with the president’s NSC spokesman.

Ronan’s stomach churns, in that way that it always does when he’s had too much to drink. For a technical prodigy, Ronan can really be a full-blown idiot sometimes. When he sits up to finally turns off the annoying beeping sound of his alarm, he’s still kind of groggy, the remnants of his night sticking around.

Jesus. It’s going to be a long fucking day.

 

 

 

By the time he’s made it through the White House security, Ronan has two and a half cups of coffee under his belt and is only slightly less of a disaster. The suit and the caffeine have made him at least look like a fully functioning human, but he also pretty much kept his eyes closed for the entirety of his morning shower. So.

The guy he is meeting with, Tommy Vietor, is thankfully both polite and also not overly chatty. This entire tour is really just a formality, Tommy being forced to shuffle Ronan around the White House, introducing him to anyone he hadn’t happened to meet already. Most everyone is too busy and stressed to give him more than a cursory handshake, and it’s not until he’s introduced to the president’s head speechwriter that Ronan truly feels his hangover impending his ability to be a person.

Jon Favreau – celebrity presidential speechwriter, supposed human-Golden Retriever – evidentially did not spend the previous night downing vodka cranberries and making out with hot brunettes, or if he did then he’s better at hiding it. He looks remarkably put together, and when he goes to shake Ronan’s hand, he smiles at him big and gap-toothed.

“It’s great to meet you,” he says, sitting on the edge of his desk to talk. His office, which he shares with two other speechwriters, is surprisingly in order, with the exception of a desk in the corner that is littered with cans of Diet Coke and take-out boxes, and also happens to be vacant. Jon notices Ronan staring, and laughs. “Excuse my colleague’s mess. That’s Lovett’s desk, and he honestly probably won’t roll for at least another hour.” This is accompanied by an eye-roll that somehow manages to also be fond. Besides him, Tommy cracks up laughing. Ronan is mostly just confused.

 

 

 

He doesn’t notice it until he’s on the train home.

The rest of the morning goes smoothly enough, meeting the head Obama staff, trying to make small talk through his raging headache. He goes back to the office after, working through the rest of the day. After lunch, he starts to feel better, less like a deer in the headlights. By the time he gets to his 3pm meeting with Secretary Clinton, Ronan would almost consider himself a not-dead human again.

In fact, he feels so good that at the end of the day, he even decides to take the train home, after spending the last several hours promising himself a cab ride as a gift for making through the day without throwing up. _Fuck_ , he decides. _You feel fine. Take the damn metro_.

Ronan is clutching a poll on the red line, listening to the conductor tell everyone that the train will be moving again momentarily, when he reaches up with his other hand to rub at his eye and notices, just under his sleeve, what looks like black writing

He pulls his cuff down.

There, scribbled on his wrist, in frankly very messy hand writing, are just three letters: _Jon_.

Ronan’s stomach drops. _Fuck_.

“Train moving,” the conductor says, before the metro shifts into high gear and Ronan hangs onto the poll for dear life.

 

 

 

Jon. Jon Favreau. Jon Fucking Favreau. Favs, he’d heard Tommy call him.

He rolls the name around on his tongue, in his head. He thinks back on their brief interaction, tries to suss out if there was any undeniable chemistry between them that he just happened to miss. Keeps on turning it over, hyper-analyzing every aspect. A perfectly normal handshake. A couple of jokes at his co-worker’s expense. Ronan had noticed a Ms. Pac Man trinket on the messy desk, and Tommy and Jon had both laughed, saying if he liked video games, he should meet Lovett. He thinks they all casually agreed to do drinks sometime.

A perfectly normal, tension-free conversation. No sparks to be found.

_What the fuck?_

It’s not that Favreau isn’t nice and charming and, scientifically speaking, incredibly handsome. Or that he isn’t smart and interesting and probably, Ronan assumes, even better once you get to know him. But his _soulmate_? Really?

What do they even have in common, honestly? Yes, Ronan has only ever spoken to him for, at max, twenty minutes, but isn’t it supposed to be like an immediate thing? Not that he expected it to just be like the movies, all knowing at first sight, but _still_. If someone is your soulmate, there should be a pull, right? Something – be it the universe, fate, god, whatever – that makes you want to spend more time with this person. Ronan has heard plenty of stories of soulmates meeting and knowing before their tattoos even appeared. _That_ is what it is supposed to be like. Your soulmate should be someone you’d want to be with even if the tattoo never showed up.

Ronan keeps on googling his picture, wondering maybe that if he stares at it enough something will go off in his head and he’ll finally be attracted to him, or at the very least, feel anything other than what he does at the moment, which is just a big fat pile of indifference. Somehow, even with the kind of cute gap-toothed smile and whole, wunderkind speechwriter thing going for him, Jon Favreau manages to be the furthest thing possible from Ronan’s type.

Ronan closes the computer suddenly, before crashing back down into his comforter. This is all very problematic.

 

 

 

Ronan waits a full week before he seeks Jon out again, during which time he spends probably several hours pacing his room and staring at the little tattoo on his wrist, wondering if maybe it’ll change. He reads up on soulmates on the internet, looking for instances when two people the universe bound, for whatever reason, didn’t end up together. And while he finds lots of perfectly interesting stories ( _I met someone, and they’re not my soulmate, but I choose them_ ; _I had to leave my soulmate, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done_ ), he cannot find one time when a pair of soulmates just weren’t that into each other. Apparently that’s counter-intuitive to the whole concept, or something.

And so on Friday morning, a full week after those three letters appeared in his life, Ronan downs a full shitty coffee from Peet’s and marches into the White House, right into Jon’s office.

“Hi,” he says, aiming for casual and landing not there at all.

Jon looks up from his computer, somehow seeming both surprised and unphased by the sudden appearance of his goddamn soulmate. “Oh, hi Ronan!” He smiles, genuine, and jeez, Ronan should definitely be more into this. He should be floored or something, right?

“Um, hi.” He pauses, briefly. This feels like the most unnatural thing in the world, but what choice does he have? “We should, ah, go out for drinks. Tonight.”

This seems like the appropriate move, or at least it did at 2am last night when Ronan couldn’t sleep and had decided that yes, fine, the universe wants him to be with Jon and that probably means making at least a tiny bit of effort.

Evidently, Jon agrees, because he just kind of tilts his head and keeps smiling. “Yeah, definitely! I’m going out with some friends in Dupont tonight, you should come! Tommy and Ben will be there. And Lovett! You have to meet Lovett, you’ll love him!”

“I… okay.” That was not what Ronan was going for, but he supposes it’s better than outright rejection. “That sounds cool.”

“Great, I’ll text you the address.” He’s so goddamn chipper and _normal_ , like he doesn’t realize that he’s sitting in front of the one person the universe has decided he’s meant to be with. It’s more than a little infuriating.

Ronan leaves the White House even more confused than when he entered.

 

 

 

The bar, just around the corner from the metro, is a full dive, not the kind of place that Ronan would ever choose. It occurs to him that maybe this is an opposites-attract type thing, before he shakes his head: no, that still feels wrong. All of this feels so incredibly wrong.

Jon is already there, with Tommy and three beers. He smiles when he spots Ronan, and Ronan does his best to decipher if it’s a “we should be friends, you seem cool” or “I’m madly in love with you” kinda look.

He offers Ronan one of the beers when he sits down. “Hey man, it’s two for one until 7, so I grabbed you a Jager!” Ronan smiles politely, wonders if it’s normal for your soulmate to not realize that you hate beer and would never, ever, order it for yourself.

Tommy, thankfully, asks him about where him and Secretary Clinton will be traveling next, which at least gives Ronan something to do other than stare creepily at Jon and wonder if he can will himself into be attracted to him.

They talk policy for a bit, Jon occasionally chiming in with comments, and it’s – _not_ a bad time. It’s good, they are fun guys. People who Ronan would definitely want to hang out with again, the universe be damned and all. They’re total bros, but they’re cool at least, nice guys. Ronan can see himself being friends with both of them, even Jon, who he has less in common with.

But he just – does not feel any connection to him. Ronan cannot get past the fact that he can never see himself being with this guy, feels his stomach twist uncomfortably at the idea of it.

Maybe, he thinks bleakly, this is fate telling him he actually doesn’t have a soulmate. By pairing him with someone who he happens to be romantically incompatible with.

It’s not like Ronan ever counted on definitely meeting his soulmate for sure, or thought that he needed this hypothetical person in order to be happy. He grew up surrounded by more than a few dysfunctional relationships, and he has learned firsthand just how much of a fulfilling, meaningful life you can have without a partner. He never thought of it as something that was necessary for his life.

But it was always – nice to think of. Nice to imagine that maybe, one day, he would meet someone who would inexplicably be his match, a perfect fit for his wired, fucked-up brain. He knows that he can be weird and too much for some people, that his family and his schooling make him seem unapproachable. He dates, he has fun, but he just hasn’t ever met a person who he felt like he could really be with fully, who would be able to slot perfectly into his life. Who wouldn’t need Ronan to change in order to love him.

It’s been good, thinking that this human being exists in the world, not realizing that the weirdness of his personality evidently extended to his soulmate connection.

God, he needs to get out of here.

Ronan’s about to tell them that he’s actually feeling kind of sick, he should probably head home, when Jon’s face turns into a grin, his eyes brightening up slightly. “Oh hey, there’s Lovett,” he says motioning towards the door. Ronan turns around and spits up his beer.

Walking towards the table, with a mob of curly brown hair and a _Star Wars_ shirt, is – definitely the guy Ronan made out with last week.

Good fucking lord.

The guy – Lovett, apparently – ambles up to them, turning to Tommy and Jon with a very distinct furrow in his brow. “You two just had to pick the frattiest bar in this city, didn’t you? It’s like I’ve stepped right into Boston and am about to get punched because I had the audacity to, I don’t fucking know, wear a goddamn Broncos hat.”

“It’s baseball season,” Tommy says through his beer, though he’s still smiling.

“Whatever, my point still fucking stands.” He’s – short, shorter than Tommy and Jon, probably shorter than Ronan (scratch that, it’s coming back to him – definitely shorter than Ronan), with these truly fucking adorable brown curls. A little bit scrawny, a lot of freaking energy. Incidentally, exactly Ronan’s type.

“Anyways,” Jon starts, as Tommy turns towards the television, where – yes, baseball, is playing. “Lovett, you’re being rude, introduce yourself already.”

As soon as Lovett turns to him, Ronan knows that he’s been recognized.

There’s a curious twist in his face, like he is truly, genuinely surprised that the dude who he definitely made come in his pants a week ago is sitting next to him in a sports bar with his bro friends, as though it’s truly the last thing he would have expected to happen.

He’s smiling though, which is – good. Probably a good sign.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Ronan says back. Lovett snorts.

“Aren’t we a couple of grade-A conversationalists.” When Ronan looks away, briefly, he notices that both Jon and Tommy have become completely engulfed in the game, which makes it only feel more like him and Lovett are the only ones in the room. “I didn’t, ah, think I’d see you again.”

Ronan takes a large sip of his beer. “Same.”

“I’m not put out about it, though.” God, it’s like they’re back to that night, which he can now fully fucking remember, finally. How Ronan had been sitting at the bar being chat up, his friends somewhere else, and the guy was kind of cute and very into him, but then a second later he looked up and caught eyes with this guy, and it was suddenly – magnetic. Like they were being pulled towards each other, like the only thing in the world was those eyes and that mouth and his desire to goddamn pounce him. Ronan had hooked up with plenty of guys in clubs before, but this was. It had never been like this. He had never felt so desperate for someone with just a single look.

Now, in a sports bar in Dupont, surrounded by cheap beer and guys shouting at the tv, Ronan can feel himself getting like that again.

He coughs. “I’m not either,” he says, looking away to try and calm himself. “You know, put out.”

Lovett laughs, confident and yet – relieved, a little bit, like he made a bet with himself and was a little worried there for a sec about the outcome. “Glad we’re, you know. On the same page.” He looks down for a second, biting his lip (trying to calm himself too?), before meeting Ronan’s eyes again. “Jon Lovett, at your service.”

Ronan takes a moment to take it in, let it roll around in his brain before the connection snaps over. Then he feels his heart stop, dead.

He thinks all the air might be leaving his body, that he is literally going to stop breathing in this shitty bar. That they’ll have to call the paramedics, that if he survives, he’s going to have to say that he was not able to keep conscious because he realized that his soulmate is not – it’s exactly who it’s supposed to be.

“How do you spell that,” he chokes out, trying to keep his breathing normal, trying to not make it obvious that his entire worldview is about to fucking explode.

Lovett – Jon, his name is goddamn _Jon_ – raises an eyebrow before giving him this little, perfect smirk. “J O N, like Favs over there. It’s like, jesus, what are the fucking chances that Obama would have two speechwriters who spell the name Jon in the historically most unpopular way to spell it, you know?”

“You say that as if there isn’t only one other way it’s ever spelled,” Ronan says without thinking, like he can’t help himself from bantering back. He spells his name like _Jon_. It’s like his wrist. It’s _his_.

Jon brushes off Ronan’s comment as if it is nonsense. “Those are silly technicalities and I will not hear them,” he says. “And what was your name again? I don’t think I caught it the other night.” He’s still smirking, and really, it’s unfathomable how attracted Ronan is to him.

“You don’t think you caught it? I don’t think I even remember you trying.”

Jon laughs, leans in closer so that Ronan is the only one who can hear him, even though Favreau and Tommy are completely glued to tv. “I was a little preoccupied with trying to get you to come. Didn’t quite have the energy for names.”

Ronan can feel himself blushing, and is momentarily terrified of what he’s about to say. God, he needs Jon to be his soulmate. He, desperately, needs this to be his person.

“Ronan,” he blurts out. “I’m Ronan.” He knows, knows for a fact that he’s been a goddamn coward, but that he needs to be brave, needs to give himself up if he ever wants to get this person back.

He looks straight into Jon’s eyes – baring into them, would probably be the best way to put it. He sees his pupils dilate for a second, has a brief moment where he wonders if maybe this is one of those scenarios where his soulmate won’t want to be with him, that he’s found another person and has decided that he doesn’t need what the fates have decided to give him – before Jon breaks into a smile, big and beautiful, not anything like how he was looking at Favreau and Tommy. Like it was made specifically for Ronan.

“Thank god,” he breathes out, shaky. “Thank fucking god.”

 

 

 

“I thought you were Irish,” Jon says sheepishly, laughing a little and looking down at their hands entwined. “This is so fucking stupid, but I actually went and like – loitered around the Irish embassy last week. I thought – god, I kept kicking myself for missing you and figured that maybe if I just hung out there, you’d pop out and I’d realize who you were.” His cheeks are turning this really pretty shade of pink and he’s biting his lip just a little, and Ronan cannot believe he ever thought for a second that someone else could be his person.

They’re at Lovett’s apartment that he shares with Tommy, facing each other on his bed, naked and satisfied and yet wide awake. They just had what was quite possibly the best sex of Ronan’s life ( _it was the best,_ his mind supplies. _you’re with your soulmate, of course it was the best_ ), their legs tangled completely up. Ronan wants them to be as close as possible, can see his old self rolling his eyes at the sappiness of it in his head and doesn’t even care. He wants them to share everything.

“It was, you know, just really confusing,” Jon goes on, letting his hand trace circles around Ronan’s bicep. Ronan can see his own name imprinted on the side of Jon’s wrist and feels his heart flutter. “Your name just appearing out of the fucking blue, having no idea who it belonged to.” Jon squeezes his arm. “I was, maybe, a little terrified I had lost you before I even met you.”

Ronan’s heart sinks a little, at the idea of Jon spending the entire week wandering around aimlessly, worried that he had missed his shot. He never wants Jon to feel like that again, and he needs to – he needs to tell him, needs to make sure he understands just how dedicated Ronan is going to be.

“I thought you were Favreau,” he blurts out instead.

Jon looks up. “What?”

Jesus fucking Christ. Ronan squeezes his eyes. “I… I didn’t notice the tattoo, at first, cause I was so out of it that morning. And then I met Jon that day and just kind of… assumed that it was him.”

The smile that Jon had been wearing, that Ronan had started to really be a fan of, fades. “Oh.”

“I know, super weird.”

“Um, sorry then.”

“This is embarrassing and – what?”

“I just mean, you know.” Ronan definitely does not know. Jon isn’t looking Ronan in the eye anymore. Ronan really misses looking him in the eye. “Just, I’m sure it’s a bit of a letdown. You know, after going a whole week thinking–” he shrugs, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as though there isn’t a universe where someone would choose him over the other Jon.

Something in Ronan’s stomach lights up. He has the rest of him life to convince him otherwise.

“Relief,” he says, tucking his head into Jon’s neck. “I just feel a lot of relief. I mean, Favreau is nice and all, but you’re… like.” He doesn’t know how to put it into words, how to summarizes how completely floored he is, how desperate and thankful he is. “You’re kind of perfect.”

It is, admittedly, not the most eloquent he’s ever been. Jon doesn’t say anything, but Ronan can feel him relaxing slightly, his arm wrapping around Ronan a little tighter.

“Also,” Ronan adds quickly, “you’re way hotter.”

This, at least, gets Lovett laughing again. “Okay, that is objectively not true. Like, it is very kind of you to say nice things to me, but I know what I look like. And I know what Favs looks like, for that matter.”

Ronan breaths out, clutching onto Jon and moving his mouth so that it grazes his ear. “Okay, how about this. _I_ think you’re hotter. In fact, I don’t think it’s even a competition.”

He pulls back to get a look at Jon’s face, who looks completely surprised and yet is still somehow smiling. “This, ah, soulmate thing. I think I can get used to it.”

Ronan couldn’t agree more.


End file.
